


Don't You Reinvent the Wheel on Me

by linktopus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate History, Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, Other, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Queer History, Slow Burn, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linktopus/pseuds/linktopus
Summary: Fortunately for the world, the apocalypse has been averted (for now) and the world is saved.Unfortunately for Crowley, that means he has to go back to dealing with the consequences of his actions.But most unfortunately, Aziraphale would have to deal with something much more.





	1. We Open with the Vultures Kissing the Cannibals

**Author's Note:**

> Before we start, I just want to let you know that I tried to write this as headcanon-accessible as possible!  
> That being said, I have and will be writing this in the mindset of my book headcanon for Aziraphale, and also my queer headcanon for Newt. But, I attempted to write is as neutrally as possible, gearing more towards the shows visuals at certain points.  
> Please feel free to leave criticisms and comments!  
> (Also, I tend to use music as chapter titles because that's where I draw inspiration from lmao).
> 
> With all that said, thank you so much for stopping by!

It was a well-known fact to both angels, demons, and most humans, that love was a divine thing.

God, as ever merciful in Her ways, gave humanity the ability to think for themselves. Through this sentience, humanity began to explore themselves; they began to uncover untapped knowledge and awareness and began to examine it all: the universe around them—but more importantly, the people. Humanity, slowly but surely, began to reach out to one another. They spoke, some conversations good, some bad, and as they spoke, they grew. They learned what it meant to speak, to forge alliances, enemies, to cooperate with one another. For better or worse, they began to develop feelings. They did not create them—they  _discovered_. Love and hate were already existent in the universe, intangible forces not yet understood by humans, but humanity reached out towards it, and claimed some for themselves.

What humanity didn't know, or refused to question, was how it was created in the first place. Many assumed it was just God's divine mercy, but although Her love for all creation is unconditional, that love is ethereal, and will always be everpresent. The love that humans share, the perceivable kind, was invented by angels. God created humans in her image, but She also created angels. Angels were given the same resemblance of the Creator and were the same to humans in the ability to pull from the intangible forces they did. But before they tapped into the source, they had to create it.

Most love is believed by humans to come from an angel's observations of the Almighty and Her caring acts, and some, though the thought would never even dare to cross an angels' mind, were created from her less-than-caring actions. After all, there are many different types for many different feelings.

Crowley, absorbed in his thoughts, scoffed at the idea. He knew, in fact, that almost half of the love felt on Earth was due to demons. Not the type of love one usually thinks qualifies, but it does come from the same source—priority; prioritizing of yourself or the things around you by way of powerful emotional reaction, and not just via positive emotions. But, love is what God gave humans, so it _has_ to be good, right? Crowley huffed a cloud of cold, smoky air at the scarf itching at his chin. It suits humanity to only look on the bright side of love, he thought, since they're all _divine creations_. It's not like he himself hasn't contributed to the vast well of emotions humans possess. He was indeed quite proud of some of his work. The Archangel Raphael may have made sympathy and empathy, and Archangel Michael may have invented loyalty and brotherly love, but Crowley was quite proud of his accomplishments. He even thought a few of the ones the other demons came up with weren't overtly dull and entirely pointless, either.

He had made a handful of different types of love back then. Apathy, he was quite proud of, and Vanity was his favourite to make. He was there to witness the conception of Envy and remembered how tedious it seemed to create something so complex and evolvable, so he preferred to stick with creations that were easier but still effective. He watched Hastur be praised—for Hell, that meant only a nod of approval—for creating the desire of Bloodlust, then saw what the price of being diligent in your demonic works was: Hasture added constant modifications and monitored it frivolously, lest its own frenziedness is its demise. Crowley's creations never were too harsh, it would be too much work to do, after all. 

Even still, he was content in his minor demonic contributions—at least, the ones he cared to credit himself with. There was one creation he refused to let into his mind, and even now, as he sat on a park bench, still damp on the edges of the wood from the night rain that had left long ago, illuminated by the residual glow of far off streetlights, he could see it in his mind behind fogged glass, obfuscated enough so he would never have to confront it, but unable to ever move it from his mind.

Crowley uncrossed his legs as he became more and more aware of the thought behind the glass, and quickly stood up and marched along the sidewalk, burying his face in his scarf. He tried to sort all of his emotions away in the back of his mind so that he could burn them later and be left only with the comfort of his anger and indifference. But it seemed he wasn't fast enough to outrun his own mind.

For thousands of years, Crowley had been trapped with that thought in his mind. Demons cannot feel guilt, and even if they could, Crowley would insist he could not. But, he knew that creation was a mistake. For a while, he would pick sides to blame, most of the time blaming the 'holier' one, partially out of spite, but the dismissal and the acceptance of an easy answer, rather than a right one, nibbled at him. The weight in his mind of the memory grew heavier and heavier with each reminder and each new memory he stumbled his way into, every instance making its bite grow sharper until eleven years ago, when the weight of the world was upon him. Thinking that would be the end, his reason began to suffer. The walls of his brain felt as if they were filled with acidic waste, corroding the support of his corporeal brain under the weight of his past—it felt like his brain had started to fail. He made rash decisions, desperate not to lose this world before he did something, the what of which he wasn't sure of. He was just sure he couldn't lose.

And he didn't. He was here, the world was fine, so he was left alone, unburdened by the 'Ineffable Plan' for now at least, and left to deal with the creation once again. But the gnawing continued, in fact, it never stopped. He had gained back his reason as everything settled, but his mind felt no lighter, the bite marks felt deeper and deeper and he could swear he felt himself draw blood, but he knows he did not. It's all inside his mind. But the pain was ever present now, he couldn't look at two people on the street without feeling the grazing of teeth again his brain, light but just enough to remind him of how painful it _could_ be. So, he was seen less of on the street. He couped himself up inside his apartment, but even that wasn't complete solace as the old familiar sharpness of bone would creep into his mind as he was marathoning television shows. When he needed to get out of the flat, when it was all too much, he would walk at night, along unpopulated parkways and avoiding popular streets. He wanted to be devoid of memories, but lately, more than usual, his mind wouldn't let him.

Crowley stopped and dropped to his knees, out of breath. He did not realize until now that he was sprinting. He glanced around, looking for his car, but realizes he ran too far off. He paused, retracing his steps, and the gnawing on his brain got forceful; it felt like the weight of thousands of years of suppression pulled apart his mind. He shoved his face to his knees and clasped his hands over the back of his head.

Crowley screamed into his knees, his cries echoed across the still pond beside him. He tried to drown out the pain, drown out the noise before it got too much to handle but he knew how this had to end. Ever since the creation was made, it had cried out to Crowley, asking for recognition, and as time went on, it pleaded more and more often, finding its voice in any moment Crowley experienced that reminded him of the accident made long ago, pleading, begging for forgiveness from him, calling out its own name so he would know it, and every time it did, Crowley made the mental barrier around it slightly thicker, slightly less visible. But even still, it's echo could be heard. 

Long ago, Crowley was the inventor of a type of love called 'pining'.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of London, a young girl was riding her bike down an overgrown path near the road. Sadly, she is rather insignificant in the events that will transpire throughout the next few days, but her brief role is an important one. Of course, she wouldn't know that.

All she knows, that she cares to know, is that she is about an hour away from her bed, and is riding in the opposite direction. For her birthday last month, she was given the bicycle she always wanted as long as she used it for good, her parents said. She had no idea on how a bicycle would be useful at all for anything besides her having fun, but she soon figured out this was her parents' way of getting her to run a mail route. Unfortunately for her, her specific mail route involved a neighbour of hers who would knock on her house late at night and ask for the mail to be delivered. Her parents quite liked this neighbour, a woman who had some odd quirks—but then again, who didn't—who offered to assist her family in gardening, free of charge. The parents had no idea what she actually worked as, but she was charming and tutored the children on various subjects when she had the time. So, since they did not want to damage the neighbourly relationship the two households had going, they would fetch their daughter from her sleep, and she would spend hours riding towards London to some sort of bookstore, slip the letters in as instructed, and ride home. It wasn't all bad though, she quite liked the night breeze.

As she breached the edge of the hill, she stopped pedalling and let gravity pull her down the hill. She smiled as her cheeks flushed from the cool air whizzing across her face and around her neck, her hair whipping in the wind behind her. She knew this route by the back of her hand by now, and she almost dared to close her eyes and let her instincts take the lead, but she knew she would only get hurt. 

Coincidentally enough, she was also dealing with a turmoil of love in her mind. As she merged onto the sidewalk of downtown, she was being bitten by another type of love from Crowley's, but funny enough was a favourite of the recipient in the bookstore she was about to visit. She was weighing the possibility of if she would see the man tonight, and if she did what the likeliness of her receiving another cookie would be. That was another reason she didn't always mind being woken up in the middle of the night, the times she saw him the man always had a dish of cookies, almost as if he'd been expecting to see her on certain occasions. In any case, the cookies were mediocre but covered in sugar, so she was always pleased to receive one.

She curved her handlebars around the corner and slowed to a gentle stop. And sure enough, there he was, rosy-cheeked and smiling upon meeting her eyes. She slung her leg over the bike and opened the storage bin tied to the back with elastic bands. She produced a single letter, sealed with a deep purple wax, and walked over to the man.

"Good evening, my dear," he said, as he graciously took the letter from her hands. The girl saw his eyebrows furrow momentarily as he flipped it to look at the seal, but flatten out once he looked up back at her. She looked down and nodded, but her eyes spotted a plate behind the shop window, illuminated by the streetlight outside. All the lights in the house were off again.

The man turned his head towards the window and let out a chuckle. "Ah, I suppose you're wanting one of those." He got up from the curb and smiled at her. "One moment," he said as he fumbled with the keys in his pocket. He unlocked the door and disappeared inside, only to reappear a moment later as the lights flicked on. The man walked over towards the counter and grabbed the dining plate next to the register, and sat back down as he brought it outside.

"I think I may have made a bit too much by accident, so you're free to take some home with you, my dear." He laughed as he held the plate in front of the girl. She looked at him for a moment, making sure this was truly alright, and once she saw his unwavering smile, proceeded to swipe the last remaining sweets off the plate and into her storage bin, but not before saving one and popping it into her mouth. The man proceeded to laugh at the girl's childlike attitude, and she giggled as well. She felt comfortable that night, happier than she had been all week. It was quiet on the streets, but the road was full of silent life pouring through lit, closed windows. Shadows of all types danced that night, as their lights made the bookstore the two sat in front feel even more dark than usual.

Feeling her usual cockiness from acquiring sugar, she spoke up, "Um, if I can ask, sir, why is your house always so dark? And why do you need letters this late at night?"

"At night, it is impossible to see the stars from the center of London." He turned his head towards the sky. "which is a shame because they always are rather beautiful."

He paused as he stared into the sky's horizon, and the girl looked up too. Even from her house, in the rural village, she has never seen the stars shine so brightly. Her mind filled with magic as she lets out the smallest gasp, her eyes trailing the lines of constellations her neighbour had taught her. Slowly, she lowered her gaze back on the man, who meets her eyes. She can see the same twinkle of the stars in his pupils.

"And it's not a necessity, but I like to read at night." He chuckled once more. "During the day, I have to work. But during the night, I am left alone with my thoughts. And sometimes, it gets rather dull in this head, so I like to hear from a friend to keep me company."

The man stood up from the curb once more and grabbed the plate. "Well, dearest, it is rather late and you are much younger than I, and I think it's around the time I must retire."

The girl lifted herself up onto her bike, and they shared their goodbyes. The man turned and unlocked the door just as the girl started to round the corner, and as she started pedalling once more, her only thought became that that man was truly full of magic.

* * *

 

 

The girl would go home and lie back in her bed that night, and she would be content at last.

The man in the bookstore would go upstairs to his drawing room and carefully unseal the letter, so as to not break it, and read carefully the words inside. He would mull over the contents of the letter once, twice, and then in fragments over the next couple hours that came until the morning. And he would set out towards a friend's house, in disbelieve and a little excitement. And he too, in the end, would be content.

As for Crowley, he would muster up any strength he can, and he would find his car and drive. He would arrive home, and he would break into his emergency wine, and he would through himself over his chair, slam his head down in pain, and talk to himself. And he would cry out, drunken tears welling up in his eyes, he would cry out to God, of all people, and ask her one question: why did it have to be him and him alone?

And he would realize, that within the question, was the answer. He would finally let the tears fall from his eyelashes, and he would cry. But also, he would smile as he clutched his head, because he would feel, ever so slowly, that the biting would lessen.

And even he, eventually, will be content.

Humanity would eventually sort itself out as well, that She knew, but it's best not to spoil the fun of getting there themselves.

 


	2. Réponds a ma tendresse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes a brief trip down tragedy lane, as he tends to do when left alone for too long. Aziraphale seeks answers in a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I looked at this and realized it has been a month today since I updated this!!  
> I suppose that's what I get for tackling something this big as my first time writing for this fandom ;;)
> 
> The title is from Muse's 'I Belong To You'. It is one half of a plea (the next chapter title), and translates to "Respond to my tenderness"

To understand where Crowley's torment began, we must go back to the beginning.

Well, not the beginning for the angel, and certainly not for the newly-fallen demon, but the beginning for humanity.

Humans have retold the story of Adam and Eve countless times, and the events that happened always stays relatively the same. If you were to ask any normal, religiously-inclined human what they thought of the day, they would say something along the lines of 'It was necessary for us to learn about God's importance', or 'That free will is what makes us human', or 'Not very smart, that Eve, eh?', and even Aziraphale would be inclined to agree with most of those arguments.

But Crowley thought of that day as a nightmare of a beginning to the rest of his days on Earth.

It started off well enough. He, at that time called Crawley, was rather proud of being assigned such an important job, and as he slithered his way up from the dark underground, he felt the warm breeze drifting through the Garden, and figured it wouldn't be too hard to corrupt a place like this.

As he snakes through the leaves of the trees, he felt the distant sun drip through the gaps above him, as it warmed his scales. He heard the chatter and chirping of the new bugs that inhabited the lush greenery that surrounded him. He slowly wound his way up the tree of knowledge, feeling the coarse bark scratch at his underside scales. As he reached the lowest hanging branch, he looked out on the horizon.

The Garden was filled to the brim with delicate wildlife; nearby the sound of rustling leaves and playful noises filled the serene silence, as a secret game of cat and mouse took place from within the shaded depths. The greenery that ranged from the tips of the dark, relaxing evergreen to the lightness of the low fern leaves encompassed the peripherals in a way that felt welcoming, almost like a hug from Mother Nature herself. Flora of different colours and smells blended with each other as they lined every surface they could, mixing in a way that, if it wasn't designed by God herself, would have clashed. But it didn't, it was perfect. That's why it would be so easy to crack.

Another sound emerged from the clearing to Crawley's right, as he turned to see The Woman, who walked towards him, crunching the small branches and stray flowers that laid at her feet. He slinked into the shade of the leaves a little bit more, obscuring himself in the foliage. Eve, they said her name was. So he quietly hissed her name, soft like the wind. She slowed to a halt at the base of the tree.

"Has God indeed said, ‘You shall not eat of every tree of the garden’?" Crawley asked, as he slowly unwound himself from the branch to approach her.

"We may eat the fruit of the trees of the garden;but of the fruit of the tree which  _is_  in the midst of the garden, God has said, ‘You shall not eat it, nor shall you touch it, lest you die,'" The woman replied looking up at the leaves, searching for a source.

"You will not surely die.For God knows that in the day you eat of it your eyes will be opened," Crawley threw his voice to the opposite side of him, and the woman turned to follow the voice. Crawley slowly approached her left ear and spoke in a whisper. "And you will be like God, knowing good and evil."

The woman turned her head towards the voice, but her eyes fell upon an apple where the sound had come from, its source tucked beneath the leaves behind it. He hesitantly plucked it, and it easily gave way under her grip. Crawley watched and saw her expression turn into deep thought, as she looked up and down the apple pensively. She scanned the tree, slower this time, and put the apple to her lips.

The nice thing about humans is that, with the right leverage, greed, and especially curiosity, is all-encompassing for them. Well, not nice for them, but certainly nice for Crawley. But he supposed that's the point. It made jobs like that a lot easier.

Eve bit down, and her eyes sprang open. She stayed still for what seemed like years, as Crawley silently observed her. She looked at every inch, at every molecule, every atom, and then she blinked. She looked down at herself, and she blinked again. As she looked up, her gaze softened as she delicately stroked the apple in her palm with her thumb. A delicate smile appeared on her face.

That... didn't seem right.

Usually, Crawley's temptations are supposed to end with reactions ranging from eventual grief to immediate, guttural terror. He's never made anyone _smile_. It felt wrong, but he was sure he did everything correctly, what else was there to do? All he was tasked with was persuading Eve to eat the apple, to disobey God. Was this supposed to happen? She looked pretty happy to him. He quickly slid down the tree and trailed her.

Eve had graduated to a dash as Crawley tried to catch up from behind. She jumped over roots and bounded over moss as she looked kept her graze in front of her, never looking down. With the apple, she had memorized this place, and she eventually slowed as she approached The Man just a few metres ahead. As she approached him, their eyes spoke the conversation for them. Adam, Crawley remembered, had looked Eve in the eyes with eyebrows raised and pursed lips. She fidgeted with the fruit in her and Adam followed her gaze. He stared for a moment, then shot his gaze back up to meet hers, eyebrows furrowed. She pulled her lips into a line, looking at him for action but also with forgiveness in her eyes, the edge of her eyebrows curling upwards in a plea. Adam snapped his eyes closed for a moment and very quietly sighed. He opened them once more, focused on the apple, then let his gaze trail up towards Eve's face again, wrinkling his face, asking her something. Her face tensed in response, not out of uncertainty, but of absolute assurance. Not breaking his gaze, he reached towards the apple, and she reached at the same time, not breaking the stare either. They both only had each other and understood each other on a deep, primal level. The didn't need words, they didn't even know them, they functioned on the same wavelength. Absolute knowledge of each other, and soon, Adam would join her in absolute knowledge of everything.

He bit the apple. And just like Eve, he smiled.

Crawley, from the cool fern leaves, flinched.

The couple fled, hand in hand, towards the other end of the pathway they knew inside and out now, together. Crawley let them fall out of his sight, as he mulled over his decision. He was almost absolutely sure that this was supposed to happen. Almost. But he always questioned things, that's how he got here in the first place. 

He was now before the wall of the Eastern Gate. As he slithered, upwards, he realized he had been moving without even realizing it. He heard the flap of wings from above and cleared his thoughts. He remembered there was supposed to be someone from Above on guard, so as he breached the peak, he shifted into his human body so as to not provoke any unneeded violence. The last thing he needed now was the angel discorporating him as he stomped him back to Hell.

As he finished forming, an awkward silence sunk between them briefly, both heads racing, full of thoughts, but eager to distance themselves from them.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon." Crawley finally broke the silence. He knew if he didn't break his train of thought now, he was going to be frustrated all day.

The angel seemed to snap out of his thoughts as well and chuckled nervously as he examined quickly the new figure standing next to him. He swallowed, "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said that went down like a lead balloon."

"Yes. Yes, it did rather." The angel turned his head away from Crawley quickly but kept swivelling it back towards him.

"Bit of an overreaction if you asked me," Crowley muttered under his breathe. "First offence and everything.

I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil," Crawly spoke with a grimace. His thoughts slipped out before he could catch them. Not that he cared if anyone heard him, anyway, the worst that would happen to him is he would be sent back to Hell one way or another and given an approving glance from his superiors.

"Well it must _be_ bad," the angel insisted, as he met his eyes. The angel paused, mouth frozen open mid-sentence, racking his mind for any mention of the demon who stood before him.

"Crawly," he assisted.

"Crawley." The angel placed the missing piece into his sentence and swallowed to restart his train of thought. "Otherwise you wouldn't have tempted them in the first place."

They spoke like this for a short while before Crawley's thoughts got the better of him again. They've always been pesky, but this time they curiously reminded him he _had_ seen this angel before, as he was mapping out the Garden.

"Didn't you have a flaming sword?" Crawley tilted his head towards him as he asked.

The angel turned his head away again, opening and closing his mouth as he mulled over what to say in response.

"You did," Crawley said, with a tinge of amusement in his voice as he sees the angel's face shift in discomfort. "It was flamin' like anything. What happened to it?" He was enjoying prodding the angel for the answer. Being a nuisance was a nice destresser for Crawley. "Lost it already, have you?"

"I gave it away." 

The angel's voice was barely audible. Crawley was sure he hadn't heard correctly, if at all. Wasn't it gifted by God? No angel who actually wanted to stay on Her good side would do that willingly. Plus, they then lost the only weapon they could fight back with. It was a silly idea.

"You what?" Crawley asked, leaning in a little eagerly. He was getting interested in this absurdity.

"I gave it away!" The angel turned his head sharply and exclaimed, visibly worried, almost too quickly.

Oh. Oh, this was rich.

It didn't matter what the rest of the conversation consisted of—well, it does to Crawley, but he won't realize why until after he's changed his name. All that was going through his thoughts was how absolutely intrigued he was in that moment. This angel, the man in front of him, willing gave a human, a _mortal_ , one of the most powerful objects. A gift from god—a _weapon_ from God. Arming humans with a weapon that could hurt their creator didn't seem very angelic to him, but then again, he gave it to help them. It had to be angelic, right? That's the only thing angels can do. It was a kind act, as much as he hates to think about those types of things now, but God didn't tell him to gave it away, the sword was for him. 

And yet, he did. Spur of the moment decision that changed the course of human history. All because the angel held his morals higher than his command.

Crawley couldn't help that the corners of his lips turned up and he blinked, staring back at the angel, half-lidded and amused.

He was always keen on rebellion.

* * *

 

When Aziraphale travelled, it was usually never unaccompanied. He would usually be offered a lift, but lately, Crowley hasn't been answering his phone calls. This wasn't all that abnormal for the demon though, he tends to disappear and brood for weeks on end, but it's been about a month and Aziraphale would be lying if he said he wasn't getting a bit worried. 

But that was an issue to tackle at a later date, as much as he hates to dismiss it, he had more important issues at hand—well, rather, _in_ his hands.

Aziraphale eventually waved down a taxi and made his way towards the English countryside, fiddling with the tears in the worn seat underneath him. He sat in silence with the driver, as they slowly made their way out of the highway traffic, as the scenery began to grow more green and vibrant as the sun grazed upwards on the horizon, painting the road with a thin layer of morning gold. 

The car lazily putted around the valley and eventually slowed to a halt as it approached a small, overgrown cottage. Aziraphale paid the driver with coins he found rummaging through every nook of his bookshop and walked along the entrance path, ducking under the archway above. The front yard of Jasmine Cottage has always been a spectacle; there were old potted plants and flowers that lined the rocky pathway, small staffs with carvings in them to mark where each herb and spice grew, and a bird basin that most birds were scared to even approach. Peaceful but alive, it suited Anathema.

Breathing in the faint scent of lavender and incense, he lightly knocked on the old wooden door. Anathema opened the door and her eyes perked up.

"Oh, hello Aziraphale, I wasn't expecting you," she said as she moved aside, ushering the man inwards.

"Er, yes," Aziraphale spoke, fumbling with his train of thought. It dawned on him how excited he truly was by all of this. "Well, I was a bit surprised myself, as well."

Anathema quirked an eyebrow up at him as she lead him into the drawing-room. She plopped down on the couch across from him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Aziraphale flattened the envelope in his hand with his thumb, and Anathema looked down at it, curiously. "I thought I should consult with you before..." His voice trailed off as he extended the letter towards her.

After the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale had grown rather close to Anathema. They found out they had quite similar interests; they bonded over prophecies at first, particularly the ones of an elusive ancestor, until they found they were speaking at least once a week. It had been a while for Aziraphale since he had actually found some human acquaintances, and it reminded him of one of the reasons why he liked Earth in the first place. Humans could be a delight to talk to when they were nice enough.

Anathema took the letter tentatively from his hand as she examined the angel's face. She traced over the unfamiliar seal on the back, eyebrows furrowing. As she opened the letter, there was a silence in the room that was ripe with tension. Aziraphale found himself holding his breath unnecessarily.

Her eyes scanned ever word as she unfolded it, as she read and reread every line much like Aziraphale had the night before. She sat there for what felt like minutes reading every line on its own, then stringing them together, years of experience flooding back to her after she had tried so hard to push out, until she reached the last line. Her eyes stopped at the bottom of the page, and Aziraphale stood up.

"Goddamnit, Agnes," Anathema said under her breath, rubbing her face with her hands.

Aziraphale patted her shoulder. "I'll go make us some drinks." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love the Eden convo happening while Crowley's still a snake in the book, I cannot get the transformation from the show out of my head.  
> Also yes, I quoted the Bible verbatim in a fanfiction (sacrilegious, I know), and yes, I used the script book for their canon convos. I'm that extra.
> 
> Planning on updating more frequently, I'm still new to writing for public eyes, so my nerves get the best of me sometimes, but I promise I won't wait a month next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry that one was weird, but I just had to get this out of my system before exams.  
> I hope you enjoyed the intro! From now on it will only be in Crowley/Aziraphale perspective (depending on the chapter) save for one instance later, but we'll get to it when we get to it.  
> Thank you again for reading! <3


End file.
